Tapestry of Trust

by Mary Annslee Urban

  Isabelle breathed deep and spun slowly on her heel, taking in the room. She had played here as a child, hunting through boxes, dressing up in old clothes. Hours upon hours she’d spent daydreaming in this place. So many tales lay hidden in this attic.

  Not much had changed. Forlorn furniture nestled amid stacks of boxes and crates.

  For an indulgent moment, fairytale notions flooded her mind. Castle-in-the-sky plans she’d once envisioned for herself. So naive.

  Biting her lip, she purged the thoughts, salvaging whatever was left of her broken heart. Enough time wasted. She rubbed her hands together and squinted, peering into the shadows. In every direction, clutter obstructed her view.

  “Now or never.” She muttered as she wormed her way to the corner of the room. Stepping over a pair of old sandals, she crouched beside a large box and tore into it. Dust flew. She coughed, sputtered, searched, and came up with nothing. Pushing the box aside, she dug into another, then a third. After the sixth, she stopped digging. Still nothing.

  She blew a wisp of hair from her face and stood. Like finding a diamond in a sand pit. She dusted off her clothes and watched dawn break through the dormer window. Great. Time was running short. She pivoted from the window, stepped around an artificial Fichus tree, and up to the ancient mahogany bureau.

  Running her fingers along the intricate grooves and scrolling, she recalled her precious grandmother. Small, energetic, with a heart as big as her smile. Warmth curled through her at the memory. Now she understood Aunt Myra’s motive for hanging on to these things.

  Just as she was about to step away in search of another box, a thought stirred in her mind. Was it possible? She slid open one drawer of the bureau after another. Mismatched linens, loose silverware, candles of all sorts. Nothing out of the ordinary until her eye alighted on something in the bottom drawer. There, nestled amongst tattered recipe cards and dollies, a sliver of silver glinted. Stooping down, she pushed the paper aside and tugged out a metal frame.

  She touched it lightly then turned it over, barely noticing the jolt in her pulse. In an instant, her mind tumbled back in time to her senior prom. The night the picture was taken. Over six years ago. Standing on her aunt’s porch in her long, fitted gown, Charlie in his dark tux. “Forever Sweethearts,” she muttered, thinking about the title they’d won that evening. A title doomed to failure.

  So long ago and no longer pertinent. She started to tuck the frame back in the drawer but lost her grip, and it tumbled to the floor with a thud.

  Great. She picked it up and pushed the corner edges together, trying to straighten the metal. Just when she thought it looked about right, the frame snapped and broke apart in her hands. Three small envelopes, sandwiched between the backing and photo, slipped onto the floor.

  16

  Feeling unsteady, Isabelle leaned into the antique bureau and closed her eyes fighting to breathe. She’d come to her aunt’s in search of the truth, believing she’d disprove Charlie’s claim, so she could return to Austin, history intact.

  “Not looking promising,” she grumbled.

  Now here she stood smack dab where she didn’t want to be, in a dusty attic, playing detective and unearthing evidence.

  Why did life have to be so complicated? She opened her eyes and glanced at the envelopes on the floor. They could also be friendly correspondence from a cousin or neighbor. Aunt Myra stashed things in all kinds of strange places. “Just overreacting.” Isabelle reassured herself, her breathing coming back.

  She slipped the frame back into the drawer, then bending, she scooped up the envelopes. They were addressed to her. The familiar handwriting jumped out at her like a neon sign. Charlie’s. Reality swiped away the last remnant of trust for her aunt.

  Tears stung the back of her eyelids. She found herself praying. Repeating the only rational thought in her head. Lord, help me.

  Isabelle sank to the floor, peeled back one of the flaps with her trembling fingers, then stopped when the sound of footsteps padding up the staircase made her breath catch. Great. She jumped to her feet and twisted around to look at the door. Sucking in a slow breath, she readied herself with an explanation.

  The footsteps ebbed, and the door creaked open.

  Bunching the envelopes together, she shoved them into her back pocket, then scurried around the bureau into the center of the attic. “Good morning.” She called to her aunt.

  “Isabelle, is that you?” Her aunt stepped into the attic, waving a hand in the air to pave a path through the dust particles.

  Isabelle swallowed, and with effort was able to speak evenly. “Yes, it’s me.”

  Aunt Myra trudged deeper into the room, glancing about, her wide eyes glinting in the feeble light. “And, what are you doing up here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Isabelle shrugged, dread rippling in her gut. “I thought it might be nice to go through some of my old things.”

  “Well, I never considered you’d be up here.” The elderly woman turned and peered at Isabelle directly. “When I heard something rattling around in the ceiling. I thought those pesky squirrels were back. Scared me to death.”

  Squirrels? Right her aunt had told her about squirrels in the attic. Despite her nerves, Isabelle chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I forgot about your squirrel episode last year.” And that the attic extended over her aunt’s room. Not that it would have altered the investigation, only softened her footsteps.

  “Yes, quite an ordeal.” Aunt Myra mumbled, tightening the sash on her bathrobe. She paused then and took a breath. Isabelle studied her aunt, not surprised by her uneasy expression. Something had changed between them. She could feel the tension in the air. After her attempts to garner information about Charlie, her aunt knew what she suspected. Of course, she did.

  “So, Isabelle.” Her aunt spread her arms, gesturing around the room. “Exactly what did you hope to find up here?”

  Isabelle bristled, and for a second, she felt guilty about her discovery. Then she remembered the letters had been addressed to her, in Charlie’s own script. That fact, as she chewed on it, left her weak in the knees. She gripped the back of a chair to keep from toppling over. “Like I said, I was looking for some of my old stuff,” she managed.

  “Old things?” Aunt Myra repeated, her thin brows pulling together. “Check the closet in your old bedroom. That’s where I put the boxes with your things.”

  Not everything. Isabelle bit back a sigh. “OK, I’ll do that.”

  A tense silence followed. For several heartbeats, she and her aunt merely stared at one another. Isabelle felt a cold chill creep over her. The implication of what her aunt had done left her exhausted and numb. She flexed her fingers, tightening her grip on the back of the chair. Her mind raced. A flurry of questions overloaded her brain. She refused to ask any. Not yet.

  Aunt Myra’s gaze slid from hers. Once again, she fiddled with the sash on her robe, tugging it even tighter. “I better get downstairs and start breakfast. You should get out of this dust trap, too. You don’t want your head clogged on your drive home.”

  Too late. Already clogged. Though, nothing to do with the dust in the air.

  She waited until her aunt was out of sight then nearly flew down the stairs and along the carpeted hall to her room. Once inside, she closed the door and dropped into the swivel chair. She cleared a space and pulled out the letters, the envelopes splattering across the desktop. Sitting back, she stared at the bounty in front of her, stolen pieces of her past.

  The ache in her heart swelled. Wasn’t there anyone she could trust? “Aunt Myra, why?”

  Only silence answered her. Tears stung in her eyes. She blinked them away and straightened in the chair. Faint morning light filtered through the blinds, barely illuminating the dimly lit room. Flicking on the desk lamp, she studied the envelopes closer, noting the postmarks—all dated in January—the same timeframe she’d left for East Texas.

  She swallowed hard, frustratingly aware that her account of histo
ry had dissolved into a tangle of lies. Knowing now that Charlie hadn’t completely abandoned her didn’t offer the peace she would have expected. Instead, she felt an odd longing for everything to remain the same. She longed to cling to one part of the past in which she had always found comfort—trusting her aunt.

  The lamplight crackled beside her. Forcefully, she pushed the thoughts aside, pulled a note from its envelope, and spread it beneath her fingertips on the desktop.

  Isabelle, always remember I love you. Charlie.

  Her chin wobbled. She forced herself to stay calm and turned the paper over. Blank. Her heart gave a thump. She tugged out another tattered, partial sheet from the second small envelope.

  I can’t tell you how this upsets me. You know how much…

  The words blurred. She blinked three times then refocused.

  I love you.

  She flipped the page over. Nothing. Barely able to breathe, the letter crinkled as she coiled her fist. There had to be more pages.

  She grabbed the third and snatched out the paper, torn and wrinkled like the previous.

  Isabelle-, you can’t believe how sorry I am. Please answer my calls. I can explain.

  Biting deep into her lip, Isabelle fought the urge to scream. What kind of insane joke was this?

  Grief...Love...Hiding… She mouthed the words, tears flooding her eyes. She had to face the facts. Like her, Charlie had felt abandoned too.

  A prickly heat rose up her neck. What was her aunt thinking? What was she afraid of? Never mind. She cut herself off and wiped her cheeks. Just one more part of her past that she’d never understand and couldn’t change.

  All the same, she needed to talk to Aunt Myra.

  Despite her resolve to discover the truth, confronting her aunt was disheartening. What excuse could she give that would erase the pain and make everything all right.

  Isabelle didn’t even bother to ponder an answer. Instead, she smoothed the notes with her fingers, refolded and replaced them into their envelopes, almost sorry she had seen them.

  Steeling herself, she rose slowly, stuffed the envelopes into her pocket and moved to the door and out of the room.

  From the kitchen doorway, she saw her aunt busy at the stove. Frying bacon, scrambling eggs, she appeared as carefree as the bluebirds flittering outside the window. Isabelle took a seat at the table, feeling anything but carefree.

  “I poured you a cup of tea. Breakfast is almost finished.” Aunt Myra tipped her head and glanced back, a wistful smile on her face.

  Isabelle made no reply. Instead she took up her cup and sipped, choking a bit.

  Aunt Myra turned from the stove, eyebrows raised. “Are you OK, dear?”

  How could she be? Isabelle coughed into her hand. She grasped for composure. A long moment passed, and with a prayer, she collected herself. She opened her mouth to speak, but her aunt held up her hand.

  “Isabelle? Why the sudden interest about the past?”

  So, she had been paying attention, after all.

  “Is it because Charlie’s involved with someone?” her aunt continued, shaking her head.

  How could she think…? Isabelle suppressed a sigh and dropped the letters on the table. “No, it’s about these.”

  Aunt Myra paused, her jaw sagging slightly. “So, that explains your trip to attic. I’d forgotten I salvaged those after I started to destroy them. I meant to give them to Sharon.”

  She looked at her aunt closely, and with effort, forced her voice to remain calm. “Sharon?”

  “I did it for you, Isabelle.”Aunt Myra turned off the stove and stalked to the table, wiping her hands on her apron. She sat in the opposite chair and folded her hands in her lap.

  “For me?” Fresh tears filled Isabelle’s eyes. She swiped them away with a knuckle. “How could you not tell me?”

  Aunt Myra nodded. “I wanted to, dear. So many times. But, I never saw the point. It just seemed logical to let you move forward rather than stay bogged down in the past.”

  “Logical? You hurt me.” Isabelle accused, hating the anger that edged her voice.

  Her aunt sagged against the chair, her bottom lip beginning to quiver. “I’m so sorry, dear. But don’t you remember Sharon’s calls? Even after you left for East Texas she contacted me daily, badgering, adamant that you end the pregnancy.”

  Isabelle stared at her, baffled and annoyed. “So, you told her I had a miscarriage?”

  Aunt Myra hesitated, as if weighing her words. “I didn’t know what else to do. Her persistence was wearing.”

  Isabelle tightened her fingers around the arms of the chair. Charlie had told her the truth, and she didn’t believe him. Suddenly dizzy, she closed her eyes and pulled in a slow breath, trying to clear her head.

  A tense silence followed.

  “Isabelle, I did what I thought was right.”

  Isabelle pried open her eyes and looked at her aunt. “You lied to Charlie and to me.”

  Her aunt gave a modest shrug. “What would have been the point with letting your relationship with Charlie linger? He’d never marry you. His mother would have seen to that. This way you could have given the child up for adoption, started fresh, no history to contend with.”

  Even with the passing of time, pondering that unfeasible idea or even worse, having to defend her intentions, brought tears to Isabelle’s eyes. She gritted out the next words, “I would never have given up my son.”

  “Maybe not.” Her aunt spoke softly. “But none of that matters any longer, does it? I just want you to understand something. Things happened very quickly. Choices needed to be made.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “Dear, I never meant to hurt you.” The finality in her tone told Isabelle her aunt had nothing more to say.

  At this point, Isabelle agreed. Rehashing history wouldn’t change anything. She needed to look past her aunt’s logic and understand the sentiment intended. She sat for a moment, silent, trying to put everything into perspective. Her mind raced; her stomach knotted.

  Finally, she came to the realization that although painful, she’d accomplished what she came to Denton for―the truth.

  Isabelle swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Aunt Myra, please forgive me for putting you in the position to make those choices. I know your intentions were not to harm me.”

  Aunt Myra extended her hand to Isabelle, clearly trying to comfort her, to make amends. Isabelle pushed past her pain, gripped her aunt’s hand and squeezed.

  17

  After rising early and rattling around his apartment, Charlie stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to catch a few winks. He wondered why he’d even looked forward to the weekend. Without schoolwork to complete or projects to ponder, the only thing left to do was think.

  Hardly a recipe for relaxation.

  Charlie blew out a breath and pulled more in. He shifted, repositioned, and shut his eyes tighter. Another vision of Isabelle popped into his head.

  Fuming, Charlie opened his eyes, sat up, and scrubbed his hands over his face.

  “This is ridiculous.” Mumbling, he drew out his cell and punched in Isabelle’s number. After the third ring the phone clicked, and he listened to the same greeting he’d heard a dozen times before. “Leave a message for Isabelle or Kate. They’ll get back with you soon.” He didn’t bother with a message. He snapped the phone shut and tapped it against his chin. Soon didn’t sound promising.

  Neither did taking a nap. He climbed to his feet and yawned, stretching his arms over head.

  He rubbed at a throbbing cramp in his side and worked his way to the dining room window. He wished she’d trusted him enough to give him her cell phone number. Looking below, he stared into the complex’s parking area below. No sign of Isabelle’s car. He hadn’t seen it, well, not since their conversation earlier in the week. Man, he’d kick himself if she’d packed up and moved out because of him.

  Ridiculous. He snorted. Isabelle probably wasn’t giving him a second th
ought. She was strong and resilient. Unlike him. His insides felt like a puddle of mush at the moment.

  He raked his hands through his hair, anxious to get a grip on his life. Here he was, a grown man, acting like a lovesick teen. Well, that stopped right now. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. Time to get out of the house and get some air.

  The sun felt warm on his back as he strode along the open corridor. Glancing over the railing he caught a glimpse of a mother pushing a baby stroller down the sidewalk. Not an unusual sight. In fact, most of his neighbors had young children. Today he couldn’t help but slow his steps and watch as the young woman pointed to a Canadian goose taking refuge on the lawn. The baby cried out, and the bird took flight.

  Charlie felt a tug inside his heart as he heard the mother laugh. He wondered about Isabelle. Had she had the chance to smile at their baby? Hug him to her chest? Had his son missed his father’s touch? At the thought, tears clogged his throat. Swallowing them back, he picked up walking again.

  Five minutes later he rapped on Isabelle’s door. Whether she liked it or not, they needed to talk, more now than ever.

  The door swung open, and Kate stepped onto the brick threshold.

  “Hi. I was checking in on—”

  “She isn’t home.” Kate’s jumped in coldly.

  Charlie hesitated a moment, studying Kate’s stony expression. He wondered what Isabelle had told her. “I noticed that Isabelle’s car—”

  He stopped, feeling a thump against his legs. He dropped his gaze and found Humphrey weaving between his ankles. “Hey, I could have stepped on you.” He snagged up the cat.

  The cat bellowed a feisty meow.

  Kate snatched the cat from him. “I wish this little hairball understood curiosity can kill.” She whirled around and stalked back into the living room, leaving the door standing open.

  Right in front of him, on the entry-table, Charlie noticed several vases of flowers. At least he knew Isabelle had received them. Even better, she hadn’t thrown them out.